VIN
Things were always exactly what Vincent thought them to be. What he thought was rarely associated with reality in the universally accepted meaning of the word. It was after all his reality, and he could have cared less if anyone else in the world shared it with him.
So it was a Sunday night after a long day of drinking and yelling. The pushing and shoving just ended a few hours back, his body was stiff, and sore and tired. His fake assed energetic positive attitude was always at the ready. Somewhere, some time ago, he learned to be that positive person for most people rather than the cruel, detached, sarcastic driven soul that he truly was. Vince began to yell over the mild din of the less than crowded, mostly subdued room. “Where’s my drink, FUCKER?” The only thing truly buzzing was around the bar where Vincent was sitting. Normally the words he had just uttered if taken at face value were harsh, but for him it was his normal tone of conversation. Typically most passersby thought he was little more than a jerk, and they avoided making eye contact with him.
“If I had tits I bet I’d have my drink by now!” The bartender just tried to ignore him, this wasn’t the kind of place to have security. So, in complete frustration based on the lack of response, he let himself behind the bar and started taking orders. Suddenly, he went from being ignored to causing a great sense of panic that was so intense it was visible on the bartenders face. Vince started taking orders and mixing drinks for the other patrons.
“Vince! GET OUT FROM THERE”
“Fuck off douche bag” Vin replied completely unflustered.
“No, really man, you can’t be back here.”
“Steve, fuck off, you can keep the tips.”
The Nuevo Riche crowd was obviously uncomfortable with the two bartenders conversation, but much like a car wreck with mangled metal and a little bit of blood they can’t help but watch. Steve was nervous, was understandably nervous, his bar is half full and he couldn’t keep up and was brutally behind. Vince was not an employee, but he was the owners friend. The place was a second home for Vince and what no one who worked there knew was that he was the majority owner of the place. So, behind the bar he went and behind the bar he’d stay…as long as he fucking wanted and no little whimpy bastard would cause him to do otherwise. The drinks began to flow and the tips came rolling in as Vin carried on with the customers, verbally abusing Steve, heckling his customers in a ribald off color humor that many would have found offensive to completely unacceptable had was not such a likeable character.
“Guinness” a customer called out.
“Really? You drink that crap?” Vincent replied.
The customer was stunned and taken aback, but before he could respond Vincent added “if you like it dark and thick try putting this in it.” and a brown runny substance that looked like sewer water was put down next to the pint on beer.
“What is it?” The patron inquires still stunned from the first response he has gotten and at that very second time he realized that Vincent was wearing a black polo shirt that had the Guinness logo on it, now realizing that he was merely playing. Begrudgingly, but now with a mild curiosity the patron complies…”But what is the drink called”? The patron again inquired.
“First drop the shot glass in the in the beer. It’s called a nigger baby.” Waiting for a reaction the customer just smiled dropped the shot glass in the pint and tried his drink.
This was Vince’s idea of reality, Nigger Babies were what his dad called Ju Ju Beans, a candy that he and his friends would get at the movie theaters when they were kids. He loved the story as a kid and remembers that he was always reprimanded, but you can’t call them that any more. A shot with a beer in it is simply a boiler maker, a favorite among the hard drinking blue collar workers in his Baltimore neighborhood as a kid. Just for the record a beer (typically a St. Paulie Girl) with the neck drank out of it and filled with Vodka is a Russian shotgun. See in his own twisted sense of reality, he hoped that his patron will so like his drink that later his friends will be regaled with the story of the drink and one day perhaps they would walk into a bar, looking around to make sure it was safe and then quietly try to order a Nigger Baby to drink. That was the joke, it was the ultimate goal, until now there was no such drink as a Nigger Baby.
“Hey this is great! What’s in it?”
“Beer, a shot glass and two ounces of Blavod a black Vodka.”
In what seemed to be an eternity to Steve he was caught up, so Vince poured himself a Coke handed a fist full of tips to the slightly embarrassed bartender and walked around the bar to sit back down. Glancing at the door he saw a woman walk in dressed in a gray skirt and white sweater, at first glance it appeared she has had a few too many already and thinking to himself to have a little fun with the little debutant, a little flirting, maybe a touch of verbal jousting and then see if she is insulted by his typical manner. “Vince…You see her?”
“Yeah Stevie, I do…and those high fuck me dirty heels.”
“Just part of the look to go with the clothes and that long dark hair, fashion not action. Vincent be nice.”
To which Steve’s ears were met with Vincent’s voice “Blow me, cum stain”
Vincent on the surface was a parody of himself, so cliché that he looked like he fell out of a bad gangster movie. Dark hair, dark brown eyes, a classic roman nose, and square jaw. Despite the fake pleasantness, and easy smile his physical presence is that of a man not to be messed with, his hands seemingly as large as cinder block, huge bulging forearms larger than most men’s calves, a thick bull like neck and an almost ape like back based on the powerful look that it exudes. Loud and lewd, without a doubt and while capable of great force and if need be violent, but he was in truth a very gentle soul. He was a swordsman by his own admission and loved to keep the company of women more than most men. With his rugged good looks and strong physical presence he could keep the company of the social elite and the beautiful people, but rather he preferred his company to be a little more real. If a man’s sexuality can be summed up by the type of porn they read then the classic beauties found in the pages of Hugh Heffner’s Playboy while alluring, were not his first choice. The articles and high art of Playboy didn’t really do it for him. Larry Flint with his less than perfect and slightly more trashy models spoke his language. Some people may like looking at an expensive car they can never afford, but many more would rather push one that was moderately more attainable to it limits. He felt the same way about his lovers, why have a Ferrari in the garage that you can’t drive very often and kills you with maintenance? In truth the women he liked are less American muscle and more like Porsche’s, fast and exotic, rare but not so much so that you still could see one everyday, also unlike a Ferrari who has a 25,000 maintenance bill every 15,000 miles a Porsche’s service requirements aren’t quite so demanding, which means if you trade them in often enough the maintenance wasn’t too bad. Translating back into the human form he’d take an above average looking sexually aware girl over a stunningly beautiful one with all the taboo’s and pretenses any day. His reading was trashy and tier graphic porn mixed in with the sports section and the weekend section of the Wall Street Journal. Vincent had made it so he can live his life his way and everyone else can just fuck off if they didn’t like it.
As our little debutant approached the bar, he hummed to himself the opening verse of Easy Meat by Frank Zappa. through blouse and a tiny little dress her manner indiscreet.”
